


Most Meritorious Men

by Kisatsel



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Affection, Blow Jobs, Canon Era, Chair Sex, Constitutional Convention, Emotions, Frottage, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-14 22:56:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7194260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisatsel/pseuds/Kisatsel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander cannot suppress a smile at the simplicity of it all: how convenient, that George Washington and he should meet again after years of uneasy separation in this place where secrecy is sanctioned and honesty is required. It is almost as if predestined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Most Meritorious Men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peakgay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peakgay/gifts).



> Happy birthday Simone! <3 Here, finally, is the semi-historically accurate chair sex that I've been talking about for months. This is somewhere in-between "Hamilton - Miranda" fic and historical RPF. It's based pretty heavily on Chernow's description of the Constitutional Convention, because I read about summer in the city (of Philadelphia) and secret discussions between closed doors and carved chairs and got excited. Also, jokes aside, my research was extremely surface level and it's not really accurate at all.

The windows of the East Room are shut and the blinds drawn so that what little light filters through is tinted as if the whole place were submerged underwater. Each day of this Philadelphia summer is spent here in the sweltering twilight gloom, a congregation of minds at work, speaking until their throats grow hoarse and listening until their hands begin to twitch as if barely constrained by their owner’s sense of decorum from reaching out to throttle some fellow delegates, whose self-interest and antagonistic opposition to the very goals of the Convention is as blindingly obvious as the sun that hits them when they stumble out of the building - at least, so it seems to Alexander, and from his talks with Madison he suspects he is not alone. He has ground his teeth so often that he fears he will wear them down to bleeding gums, but he has attended carefully to each speech and rebuttal, scribbling whenever the words come to him. They come often, for he has but to recall the sheer, valiant improbability of their common purpose and his pen jerks in his hand once more.

A fly lands on his arm, rubbing its tiny arms together and pattering its tiny feet in a fitful dance, until he brings his hand down on it with a sharp slapping sound. Williamson, seated beside him, lays down his quill and turns to look at Alexander with mild perturbation. Alexander flicks the creature neatly aside without meeting the man’s eyes. Paterson drones on still. His point, such as it is, has surely been made, and so Alexander allows his eyes to drift away from the speaker towards the profile of Washington - formerly his excellency, now bearing no title, though his manner is still very much that of the general. Washington sits ramrod straight and observes the proceedings from his place at their head. He bends his head occasionally to make some careful note but for the most part he is as still and quiet as a statue, his attention fixed on whoever is speaking. 

The delegate from New Jersey closes his mouth at last, and it is agreed by a general impatient rustling and laying down of quills that they are due a break. Alexander waits until the whole company has filed out in small muttering clusters before he stands and brushes the dust off his waistcoat. Washington rises stiffly and they make for the door together. Words, for once, are not required. 

When Washington beckons to one of the hired sentries leaning against the wall he follows immediately. They make their way upstairs towards a small room which is used mainly for private discussions. Alexander cannot suppress a smile at the simplicity of it all: how convenient, that George Washington and he should meet again after years of uneasy separation in this place where secrecy is sanctioned and honesty is required. It is almost as if predestined.

“We are not to be disturbed,” Washington tells the man. “I desire Mr Hamilton’s council.” The sentry nods his understanding, and they enter the room, and are alone. 

Washington eases himself down into a chair and regards Alexander. Alexander stands, as he was accustomed to during the war.

“So,” Washington says. “You have returned to us.”

Alexander gives a short bow. “At your service, sir, as I ever was.”

“I trust Eliza and the children are well.”

“The children are exhausting, and we could not be happier.” 

Washington raises a thick eyebrow. “Fatherhood is a blessing,” he intones, amusement dancing in his eyes. 

“Indeed, sir.” A thread of impatience tugs at Alexander; he takes a step closer to Washington. The letter had reached him at home where he had ensconced himself at his desk, buried up to his neck in legal matters, a necessary reprieve after his proposals to the convention had been solemnly applauded and then summarily ignored. He had opened the envelope to find a mere few lines scratched out quickly, little by way of news or gossip. _I am sorry you went away. I wish you were back._

And so he is here.

“You see, Alexander, you summoned me from my happy retreat back into the affairs of the nation,” Washington says with cheerful resignation. “Well, I agreed to come. You will not deprive me of your counsel and company.”

“Never, sir. So long as it is my power to do so.” Washington bows his head in an approving nod of the kind Alexander once toiled for hours in the bitter chill of the army tent to earn. His merit is no longer in question, and so, as ever, he ventures further. “You will need a right hand man when you are president.” 

The smile twitches away and Washington closes his eyes. “We will not speak of that now.” 

“As you wish.” It was rare, during the war, that Alexander was permitted to see the general carrying the weight of command with anything other than his usual fortitude, and the heavy lines of his shoulders awaken a curious tenderness in Alexander. His hands ache to touch, to feel the muscle and skin and know him a man. 

He shifts from one foot to another. It is stiflingly hot. 

Washington is still lost in thought, grateful perhaps for a quiet moment. Quiet he may have, but Alexander has not lost sight of their purpose here.

He slides off his cravat, drops it to the floor, and begins to unbutton his jacket. It is a particularly fine one, of blue silk, purchased the day after he received Washington’s letter and began his preparations to return to Philadelphia. The jacket he places over a chair, followed by his sweat-dampened shirt. 

“What are you - oh,” Washington says with gratifying admiration.

Alexander has seated himself in order to remove his remaining clothing. Only when he is entirely bare does he look up to see Washington watching him with hunger written across his face. 

He had caught glimpses of this hunger sometimes, when his excellency sought him out to add to his teetering stack of papers, the candle flickering between them, had whispered of it to John and received a cheerful smack for his trouble. But John saw nothing besides brotherhood and death and glory and Alexander, and Washington would have nothing of it besides, and so it had hung between him and the general until it grew sour and festered.

Now he sees it true, and understands why his commander had been unwilling to abuse the authority of his position. Three years of silence and they are here in Philadelphia, where George Washington possesses no authority other than that which he has earned through service to his nation. He would not abuse it; but he might use it still.

Alexander crosses over to the chair where Washington is seated and fits himself in his lap, the bare skin of his thighs pressed against the heavy starched cotton covering Washington’s broad form. The chair creaks beneath them. Washington fits his hands around Alexander and strokes his fingers carefully over his back. “You will endeavor to remain quiet,” he says. 

“As you wish, sir,” Alexander says, though he hardly needs to. But Washington’s command has always been absolute and today acquiescence is sweet. It shivers through him that he would yield to this and to every request Washington might make of him. 

He leans down to kiss softly, coaxingly. Washington’s neck is sticky with sweat under his cravat and Alexander works to free him with nimble fingers, though Washington tries to distract him with teeth and tongue. 

“Perhaps,” Alexander says lightly once he has worked the jacket partway down over Washington’s arms, “you might have snapped fewer quills during the war had you permitted my attentions then.” 

Washington rolls his shoulders to work the jacket off. He takes hold of Alexander’s shoulders and fixes him with a look of considerable disbelief. “Had you heeded my command to leave me in peace, we might have spared a whole goose.” 

A laugh bursts out of Alexander, sudden and loud. 

“You heed me little still, I see.” Washington slides two fingers into Alexander’s mouth and he flushes and sucks on them, sinks forward so that they press against the back of his tongue and his mouth is rounded obscenely. 

Washington groans quietly and works with Alexander to remove his shirt. He draws his fingers out and presses one, damp, against his lower lip. Alexander exhales slowly. 

It was in this building that Washington was nominated to be commander in chief. Momentous things have happened here, and will happen yet. And this, too, Washington running a hand down Alexander’s chest and over his belly with exquisite care, as if he might shatter if handled roughly. He breathes through the scrutiny for the space of a few seconds, until his need crests and he jerks his body forward, rocking the chair. 

Alexander pushes his mouth against Washington’s ear, whispers, “Sir.” 

Washington grips his hips tighter. “I would like to take my time with you.”

“Another time,” Alexander says, wild with possibility. He imagines a bed, soft sheets and Washington at liberty to inflict whatever torments he might desire, the door closed with no need for a man outside. 

But they have this stolen moment, his feet digging into the wooden slats of the chair and hot skin pressing against skin. He leans in close and ruts his cock against Washington’s belly. 

Washington’s fingers caress his cheek, leaving a wet trail. “You begged me for this,” he says, wondering. “I thought it some ruse that Alexander Hamilton, a man so proud as to fairly spit venom when his faculties were questioned, should tell me with absolute conviction that I had the use of his mouth and his hand to whatever end they might serve me best.” He licks his palm, takes Alexander’s cock in his hand and begins to stroke him lightly. 

“I see no contradiction in what you say. And I will beg again. I will be proud to do so.” Alexander shudders and grits his teeth. Of course Washington has reduced him to that brash, eage youth again with no more than a handful of words and a wrinkle of his brow, an oblique reference to his alien origins. 

“Very well,” Washington sighs. “Beg if you must, Alexander, for it’s a pretty enough sound.” He draws his hand back and caresses Alexander’s thigh. Alexander whimpers. Washington watches him expectantly. 

“Please,” he says, low. “Touch me.”

Washington must be feeling obliging, or perhaps has some idea of the need for haste after all: he wrestles his breeches down further, jolting Alexander backwards from his perch, frees his own cock from its confines and gathers Alexander in to wrap his hand around both of their cocks together. 

“Handkerchief,” Washington says hoarsely.

“What handkerchief,” Alexander gasps out. He clenches his mouth shut to trap the groan that wants to escape, and Washington closes his eyes and lets out a small, choked laugh. The slide of their cocks is perfect, his thighs rubbing against the creased fabric of Washington’s breeches. Alexander pushes up against him, chasing his release. 

Washington curls his hand fully around Alexander’s cock, presses his thumb into the head. “Very well, you messy creature. Be done with it.” He tugs impatiently. Alexander is overheated, unable to think, unable to disobey, unable to control the jerking of his hips; he squeezes his eyes shut and comes.

Washington strokes him through it until Alexander winces at the friction on his softening cock. Two fingers, wet with come, push past his lips and he sucks blindly, licking them clean. 

Slowly, he tips his head forward to lean on Washington’s shoulder and kisses his neck lazily. He twists his head to admire the chest dark with flush and painted with Alexander’s release. 

“I see we spared your breeches,” he says into the warm skin of Washington’s neck. 

“Yes,” Washington replies, strained. “We will not tempt fate twice.”

“Will we not?”

Washington takes a handful of Alexander’s hair where it is drawn back and pulls his head up, holds him there and run a thumb over his lips, and Alexander understands. He unfolds himself stiffly from his perch and kneels between Washington’s spread thighs. Washington has not yet received a demonstration of his skill with this task. He makes a small noise when Alexander sinks down his length, a grunt of surprise or satisfaction. 

Years have passed since he sucked a man’s cock, but the trick of rounding his lips and opening his throat has remained. Alexander savors the musk, the taste, the stretch of his jaw. It takes little time before Washington issues a muttered, garbled warning and comes, flooding his throat. 

Alexander draws off and licks his lips. He rests his head on Washington’s knee and sighs happily when a hand comes down to caress his neck. 

"My boy," Washington says. "I was at my best with you by my side." 

“As you shall be.” Alexander swallows around the bitter aftertaste and sits back on his heels. He was right to return early. 

“They mean to give me the presidency.” 

“It is yours by right. It is yours already. You must take it, and lead us.” Alexander slides his legs to the side and sprawls at Washington’s feet. He feels pliant and content, thoughts sex-softened, filled with bright and shining truth. 

“Am I.” Washington pauses mid-sentence. The general would speak decisively, his thoughts laid out in a neat line. This George Washington, a retired soldier trying on the garb of a politician, permits himself to meander occasionally. “Am I deserving of this? Am I sufficient.” This query is addressed to Alexander, seated on the floor, with the usual gravity. 

Alexander stares at the hand resting on Washington’s knee, the fingers half curled into a fist. Blinks. He aches to reach up and doesn’t. Listens to the steady pulsing of his own heart swollen ripe like a plum in season, plucked from the branch and cradled in the palm, overfull and ready to burst. 

It is very easy for those whom he loves to prize him open, as his Betsey has discovered. And yet he must speak carefully. 

“Many times over. There can be no other leader.”

Washington does not respond. There are other words, arguments and pleas, but George Washington cannot be pushed or cajoled, only given what he requires. Alexander stretches out on his back on the hard floorboards, sticky against his bare skin, and taps a finger against Washington’s ankle. “Will you join me, excellency?” 

The chair creaks as the man seated upon it unfolds himself and draws up to his full height. He towers briefly and then sits with an audible thud and stretches out next to Alexander. Washington rests his chin in his elbows and looks at Alexander with seeming perplexity. “A charming view.” 

“I concur.” Alexander clasps Washington’s two hands in his own and presses a kiss to the knuckle of one. The smell of sex lingers. He commences cleaning Washington's chest with neat licks, and then takes Washington's arm and drapes it over himself. “So,” Alexander says thoughtfully, “this is what must be done to get George Washington horizontal.” Another eyebrow raise is all he gets in response, but it is a very elegant one. “Tell me: my plan. My speech. Was it folly in your eyes too?”

“You trust very greatly in the wisdom of the president, to steer his country for a lifetime.” Washington rests a hand on his chest, fingers spread proprietarily. “Too greatly.”

“I must,” Alexander says. He tries to imagine a second, third, fourth president, the people choosing and choosing again, choosing _right_ , and his thoughts falter, unable to reach beyond the overwhelming solidity of the present: Washington beside him, surrounding him, watching over them all. 

Enough. What must be will be. He sits up, brushing the hand aside, and surveys the room. There is little trace of their activities. They have lingered too long, made foolish by playing at lovers. He was ever weak for a gentle touch. Briskly he stands and brushes the dust of the floor from his skin, and Washington follows reluctantly, huffing under his breath. 

It is the work of five minutes to assemble themselves once more, grimacing as they pull fabric over sticky skin. The sentry barely glances at them as they leave the room. He falls into step as they make their way along the hallway to the room where the delegates are gathered. 

Washington takes his seat on the dais, and the room stirs, heads raising as the buzz of conversation recedes. Alexander returns to his place. Madison nods at him. A few men glance over at him with naked curiosity, muttering to each other behind their whiskers. Alexander smiles. They shall remain curious. 

He flicks through his papers and breathes in the muggy air, thick with hope, heavy with secrets. 

“Gentlemen,” Washington says. “Let us proceed.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are loved! I'm kiwisatsuma on tumblr.


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